


We're All Monsters Here

by DeanisBatman



Series: Random Witcher One-Shots With Unconnected Storylines [1]
Category: Deadpool (Comics), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Child Death, Deadpool Thought Boxes, Gen, Monster of the Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:09:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26842660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeanisBatman/pseuds/DeanisBatman
Summary: I just had this little niggling crack fic idea and had to write it into the world. What if some extra mutagens and a big dose of magical torture broke Geralt's brainpan and he experienced visual hallucinations of his thoughts the way Deadpool does with his thought boxes (comic). Answer = this fic.-There was a pregnant pause during which Geralt breathed through his mouth to avoid the scent of blood and determinedly did not look at the yellow box in the air.*Eskel would have saved him.*He caught the words out of the edge of his vision and physically flinched away from the condemnation. The white box was back, but the Witcher was done with humoring his hallucinations for one day.
Series: Random Witcher One-Shots With Unconnected Storylines [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1958173
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	We're All Monsters Here

Geralt stumbled away from the kikimore corpse, brushing viscera off his pauldrons with sharp, annoyed movements. His potion-black eyes flashed up to the air on his left and his mouth twisted into a dissatisfied snarl. 

“Yellow, you can shut the fuck up,” he growled, voice rumbling and dangerous. “I knew what I was doing.” 

Pale sunlight filtered down through the thick swampy forest. Deer flies buzzed in languid circles around the Witcher’s head, tiny fat bodies bloated on monster blood. Geralt’s jaw muscle twitched as he ignored the flickering white box in his peripheral that no doubt held some encouraging note about how the boy’s death was not his fault. He would tell White to shut it too except that figment of his mind was at least partially benevolent and pissing it off would get him nowhere. 

Geralt refused to claw at the itching on his skin that begged for a release - blood against open air. He was better than that now. Eskel had taught him how to breathe through the compulsions. He stopped, breathed in deep through his nose, and instantly knew it was a mistake. The scent of the child’s blood was too close, too fresh. Geralt felt his stomach heave but knew that his control was too strong for the action to complete. Instead, he let the putrid lungful of decay and death out in a whooshing rush that did not make him feel any better. 

“Fuck.” 

Geralt knew he would need to collect the body so it could be put to rest. The tiny bundle of flesh and clothes lay shattered at the bottom of a thick tree trunk several hundred yards away from the main battle. He whistled to call Roach to his side and pulled out his winter cloak from a saddlebag to wrap the child’s body. 

_You could have saved him. If you had been faster, stronger...better._

There was a pregnant pause during which Geralt breathed through his mouth to avoid the scent of blood and determinedly did not look at the yellow box in the air. 

_Eskel would have saved him._

He caught the words out of the edge of his vision and physically flinched away from the condemnation. The white box was back, but the Witcher was done with humoring his hallucinations for one day. He held the broken corpse in his arms, the thick fabric hiding away the cold body beneath, and took Roach’s reins in one hand. 

“C’mon, Roach,” his voice rumbled across the destroyed clearing. 

The half-mile walk back to the small town was quiet with only the buzz of flies and steady beat of hooves. Geralt refused to allow himself to feel an ounce of self-pity when he recognized the two elderly people standing, huddled together, at the mouth of the main road. It was the boy’s grandparents. He continued his steady approach. 

“Filip!” the gray-haired woman shouted the moment she realized what the Witcher was carrying in his arms. “No!” She collapsed to her knees on the dusty path with an inconsolable scream. The balding man at her side remained stoic, but Geralt’s potion-enhanced sight caught the minute trembling of his chin and the tightness around his eyes. 

“The monster is dead,” Geralt said when he handed the still cloaked body over to the man’s trembling grip. There was nothing else to say. 

The Witcher turned on his heel and quickly mounted Roach, moving her past the grieving couple and towards the Aldermann’s house. He tuned out the weeping behind him and instead focused on breathing, Eskel’s calming voice in his head. 

_Breath in. One, two, three, four….Hold. One, two, three, four, five. Breath out. One, two, three, four, five, six._

The exchange of kikimore tongue for a bag of coin was quick and efficient. People were starting to gather outside their homes, the sound of mourning filling the air. Geralt ignored them all and steadfastly refused to look at the whisps of yellow and white that hung in the air around him, no doubt giving alternating opinions of his worth as a sentient being. He blinked through potion-black eyes and led Roach away before the townsfolk could organize themselves with rocks and pitchforks. 

Not always being able to rescue a monster’s victim was a fact of life on the Path, but people tended to react more violently when it was the bodies of children or women that Geralt returned to their families. He understood. In a detached sort of way. There had been too many decades of horror, death, and destruction for it to cut so deep. 

Maybe he was turning more monster with every year. Geralt had no way to know. He could not even trust his own mind. The floating boxes of self-recrimination and hate were enough proof of that. Eskel had explained multiple times about trauma responses, unintended mutagen reactions, and other things that Geralt let slide right over his head. None of it mattered. It boiled down to one hard truth. Geralt was not a human and he was too unstable to be a proper Witcher. He was in a category all of his own and he refused to allow that knowledge to leave marks on his mind. 

Chin up, shoulders squared, he settled back in the saddle and let Roach march on towards their next contract wherever it might take them. 

**Author's Note:**

> Literally, just a passing thought that had to get some air time. Not planning to expand or go back and show the torture that led to this level of mental dissociation. Hope you like it. Feedback and comments encouraged. Thank you for reading!


End file.
